Starlancer - a novelisation
by Morgaur
Summary: As it says. Some changes made. Prior knowledge not required. ON HIATUS!
1. A Storm Breaks

Cheering.

Crewmen line the corridor, whooping and applauding, as the President of the Western Alliance strides down it. Cameras follow him and precede him, broadcasting the sight to all the Alliance-held colonies and ships.

He's smiling and waving at the crew and the news cameras. At a pair of thick steel doors leading to the shuttle dock he stops and faces back down the corridor, looking into the cameras with his trademark lopsided smile.

"Men and women of the Alliance," he says, "I congratulate you. You have held firm and remained steadfast through five years of hell. Now, that hell is over. When I and the Premier of the Eastern Coalition sign the peace treaty on Europa in one hour's time, the Sol War will be over at last."

More cheering.

He smiles and nods, giving a victory salute, until the noise dies down. Then he keeps speaking, painting a glowing picture of the future.

On board the flagship of the Eastern Coalition First Fleet, at a window of the forward viewing platform, a man stands.

A broad-shouldered man, his frame still strong despite having run to fat, his chin still firm despite having tripled. The gold insignia of the Premiership gleams on his peaked cap.

Sweat runs down his brow. His hands are clenched fists by his side. He watches the looming shape of his ship's Alliance counterpart draw closer.

A bald, bareheaded officer waits respectfully at a distance. All is silent.

The Premier bows his head.

"Our Father who art in heaven, aid us now." The murmur is so quiet it is practically inaudible.

He straightens, takes a deep breath as a diver does before the plunge.

He speaks without taking his eyes off the Alliance ship.

"Commander Olmanorff, begin the attack." His voice is harsh but quiet.

The officer salutes.

"Yes, Admiral." He takes five strides to a shell of holoscreens, a helmeted man sat in their midst.

"Signal Lieutenant, initiate Operation Kutuzov."

A messenger runs up to the President, cutting him off in mid-speech.

The President reads the note. His face crumples inward, turning white. The paper falls from his shaking fingers.

"Dear God, no…"

He raises his haggard face to the quizzical cameras. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.

An admiral picks up the paper. He reads it quickly and blanches.

"Action Stations!" His voice breaks and he shouts again. "General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations!"

Confusion reigns as the gathering fragments, panic ensuing.

With a whirring of motors, robotic arms load a twenty-five-kilo oval of steel into the firing chamber of the Coalition flagship's main gun. The door clicks shut and the chamber begins to hum as the magnetic coils charge. Computers fine-tune the gun's aim and then, with a deafening clang and crash that echoes in the battery, the monstrous coilgun fires. A faint tongue of plasma jets forth silently from the muzzle, wreathing the steel shot in a pale corona as it hurtles towards the Alliance ship at thirty thousand metres a second. The blaze of the impact, directly on the prow of the ship, is as bright as a star for a split-second. When the glare fades, the bow is a gaping riven crater, shards and strips of shattered shocked steel streaming out in a glittering halo.

As the Coalition ship's gun readies to fire again and her secondary armament opens up, flickers in the fabric of space announce the arrival of the rest of the Coalition First Fleet.

Swarms of fighters, gnats beside the behemoth hulks of the ships, spill from their steel guts in billowing clouds.

Roiling streams of plasma spurt from the muzzles of the other ships, blasting gaping wounds in the Alliance craft.

All is chaos, as the Coalition tear the Alliance apart.


	2. Looming Doom

**Hey anyone out there who's reading this...Chapter the Second is here. Many thanks to The Raven Nyx for beta-ing.**

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In the mess of the Alliance cruiser Thunderchild, stunned silence reigns. People stand around, staring at the blank screens. Slowly sound returns, tentatively, slinking in with its tail between its legs, as murmurs spark and spread. The captain runs to the podium, seizing the microphone from the shocked host.

"General quarters!" she shouts. "General quarters! All hands, man your battle stations! Make ready for combat!"

The people stream out of the room, practised military precision and training taking over as they run for their posts. The festive decorations hang forlornly on the walls, bereft of joy. The captain follows her men, slowly. She looks up at the tinsel and glitter.

"Why?" she whispers. "Why?" The silent walls return no answer. She sighs. There is a muffled thud as she falls to her knees. "Oh God," she breathes, "help us…"

An officer runs in, stops sharp. "Captain?" he asks. "Are — are you alright?"

The captain looks up, a pale smile on her lips. "I'm fine, lieutenant. I'm fine." She stands and leaves the room.

Outside the ship, in the darkness of space, dozens of other vessels drift slowly onwards at six hundred metres per second, clustering round the Thunderchild. Their long, thin, cigar-shaped bodies ghost through space, the slowly rotating rings of the pod-studded centrifuges giving them an image of serenity they sorely lack.

They are a convoy of troop carriers, bringing troops on leave to Neptune's orbital colonies. Messages of support and reassurance dart towards them, streaming out in a spider's web centred on the Thunderchild, calming the crews and passengers. They move into a rough sphere, the better to defend themselves. The Thunderchild, squat and broad, above and behind them, a protecting presence, almost like a bulldog on guard. Turrets activate on each ship, barrels panning round to take up fixed positions, providing interlocking fields of fire. On board the Thunderchild, missiles arm and ready, launchers rising from hatches to bristle like spines along its back. Engines flare briefly as the ships increase their speed to one thousand five hundred metres per second. Urgent ansible messages blizzard out from the Thunderchild, requesting jump coordinates from Fort Helican, gateway to the Krios sector, the outer ring of colonies. A short, curt answer returns:

"Overwhelming requests received. Delays inevitable. Maintain speed and wait. Be on guard."

The Thunderchild's captain sighs, shaking her head.

"It's to be expected…" she murmurs sadly. "So many refugees…let us pray we remain safe."

The ships move slowly on, through the dark velvet fabric of space. Time passes, one hour Standard, two hours, three…and still no jump coordinates. Tension slowly increases, as the hours slip by. A day, Standard, passes before there is any message from Fort Helican, a day of waiting and watching, of no sleep and little rest, of constant vigilance and continuous worry. The stress on the bridge of the Thunderchild shatters in release.

"Jump coordinates being determined now. Be prepared to jump as soon as they are received. ETA one hour."

The captain, haggard and weary, hollows beneath her eyes and her hair limp, manages a smile.

"Tell the other ships to be ready," she orders, her voice tired but elated. "And tell the crews to stand down."

The comm lieutenant salutes and conveys the order across to the huddled convoy. The relief can almost be seen; ships seem to sag in their places, their turrets going limp. Fitfully at first, but gaining strength, a ragged cheer swamps the comm links for a minute or so.

The captain sinks back into her seat, closing her eyes as her head falls onto the headrest with a small thump. She lets out a sigh. "Praise the Lord…" she murmurs.

Only twenty minutes, Standard, remain. The convoy is on course, but no longer watchful or vigilant. The Thunderchild's missile launchers have retracted, her shields are down. Most of her crew are sleeping or in the mess rooms. Few still man the turrets, and they are not alert. On the bridge, the captain dozes in her chair. A handful of officers still remain, but the bridge is almost empty.

Then disaster. Three thousand kilometres above and to port, flickers against the blackness of space announce the arrival of two monstrous vessels. Their engines blaze bright, propelling them towards the convoy at three hundred kilometres a minute. Symbols painted in blood red along their sides proclaim to the universe at large that they are the Coalition battlecruisers Potemkin and Bolívar, of the Battlefleet Martian. On the upperworks of each ship a massive pair of coilguns thrust their aggressive muzzles forth, gaping mouths of death. Missile turrets rear from hatches along their sides like hydras' heads.

On board the Potemkin, the Captain stands at the bridge viewscreen, leaning forwards, hands on the rim. He stretches a hand out and taps the red-lit icons representing the Thunderchild and the convoy, summoning up statistics and information about them.

"Troop carriers, eh?" he murmurs softly. "Can't let them through, can we?"

He turns to his communications officer. "Patch me through to the Bolívar. I want to speak to Velasquez. And prepare to fire on the capital ship."

The officer salutes, turns to his holosphere and taps commands onto the ethereal screens.

A viewscreen activates, showing the head and shoulders of Captain Velasquez of the Bolívar. Hee hair, a colour between ginger and yellow, is loose about her face. She looks much younger than her forty-four years suggests, but her voice belies her age, hard and clipped.

"Captain Naryshkin."

He smiles. "My dear Velasquez. I assume that, like me, you are preparing to fire upon the capital ship…?"

She does not smile back. "Indeed, Captain Naryshkin."

His smile widens. "Then, my dear, I claim my right to fire first."

"On what grounds?" she replies, her face unchanged.

"My seniority as a First Captain, my dear Velasquez."

Velasquez gives a sharp retort. "First Captain of the Seventh Wing, not the Sixth." She smiles suddenly, baring her teeth. "Fire!" She terminates the link, leaving Captain Naryshkin staring at the blank screen in surprise and growing anger.

The Bolívar, one hundred kilometres ahead of the Potemkin, fires its main coilguns, hurling two twenty-kilo steel rounds at thirty kilometres a second directly at the Thunderchild.

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**Eep. Next chapter's a battle chapter. Have you read War of the Worlds? If so, you'll remember where the Thunderchild comes in. Cheers.**


	3. Crushing Loss

**Lalalalala...wait, what? Oh. Yeah. Here you go, people!**

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[Two minutes before the Coalition battlecruisers arrive]

The last two officers leave the bridge. They go down the stairs to the mess for a much needed meal, speaking quietly to avoid waking the captain.

She shifts slightly in her sleep, and the two officers freeze for a moment, then relax and carry on.

"Should we send her up some food, do you think?" one asks.

The other looks back up at her, slumped in her chair, her shoulder-length black hair out of its usual bun.

"Later," he replies. "Let her sleep."

They head down, leaving the sleeping captain alone on the bridge.

A minute later, the Coalition ships arrive.

The thradar sounds a faint warning, but there is no-one to hear it. The captain only shifts and moans: "Five minutes more, Mother…"

It is only when a viewscreen snaps up and the voice of a captain of one of the convoy's ships echoes out across the bridge that she wakes.

"Captain Hendy!"

She jerks awake with a stifled cry.

"Captain Hendy," the man says urgently, "two Coalition battlecruisers crashed in on us. They're closing fast - what do we do?"

She leaps to her feet, staggers and nearly falls.

"Alert the fleet," she answers, as she darts forwards to the helm, "and initiate evasive manoeuvres, immediately!"

"Aye aye, Ma'am," the captain says with a sharp salute, and the screen deactivates. Captain Hendy seizes the controls and pulls hard up and port, turning the Thunderchild agonisingly slowly towards the approaching ships, just as bright flashes announce the firing of the closer of the two's main guns.

"Everyone to their posts," she cries across the intercom. "Everyone to their posts, we've been bounced!"

There is a pause, then a faint rumble of feet that grows quickly louder. Officers, one with drink spilt down his front, others without jackets or with shirt buttons undone, spill into the bridge from the gangways, rushing to their posts.

"Raise shields," she orders, relinquishing the controls to the helmsman and hurrying back to her chair. "Take evasive action but continue towards them."

The enemy's first salvo goes wide, the rounds flashing by a hundred metres away.

She glances at the communication sergeant, fumbling with her headset. "Contact Fort Helican, emergency wavelength, priority Alpha Plus Red. Tell them we've been bounced and we need immediate jump clearance."

"Aye aye, ma'am," the sergeant replies, and hunches over her holoscreens.

Projectiles from the second ship streak past the Thunderchild, and one strikes a troopship a glancing blow on its rotating centrifuge ring. Debris swirls outwards, and the ship lurches away. Its prow crunches soundlessly into the stern of another ship, and with a sudden blinding flare the ship's nuclear core explodes. Both ships are torn apart, the wreckage shooting outwards in a deadly star of shattered steel.

Captain Hendy gasps. For a second she stares silently, then faintly a prayer for the souls of the dead spills from her lips. She pulls herself together and turns abruptly to the gunnery chief.

"Can you fire?" she asks, her voice suddenly harsh.

He salutes. "Yes, Ma'am, we're in range."

"Then fire!"

The Thunderchild's lone coilgun fires, hurling its own ten-kilo steel slug across the quickly-narrowing gap between the ships. It misses the Bólivar's starboard bow by a mere two metres.

Captain Hendy practically spits in disappointment. "Mother of God! Prepare to fire again, and hit this time!"

A round from the Potemkin slams directly into the Thunderchild, just forward of the starboard engine. Alarms go off and the ship trembles with the force of the blow.

"Damage report!" Captain Hendy almost shrieks.

"We've taken a hit on the starboard side, forward of the engine. Minor hull breach, some decompression. Fire on two decks. Being contained. Automatic sealing of the decompressed parts in progress. Seventeen casualties," her chief engineer reports, bent over his holographic display of the ship.

"Fire a second salvo," Captain Hendy snaps. "And get those goddamned shields up!"

"Captain! Fort Helican Control online!" the comms sergeant calls, tapping frantically on her holopads.

"Bring them up!"

There is a buzz and a viewscreen activates. A bearded man in a blue uniform and peaked cap appears, the image crackling slightly.

"Captain Hendy," he snaps. "Report!"

"We are under attack by two Coalition battlecruisers. Two of the troop carriers-" a flare of light as another explodes under the impact of a salvo from the Potemkin interrupts her- "scratch that, three have been taken out, we've taken a hit ourselves. Need immediate jump co-ordinates!"

There is a sudden whoop from the gunnery chief as a round from the Thunderchild's main gun impacts on the Bólivar's starboard side, just aft of the bridge.

"Well done! Now score me another!" Captain Hendy calls, before turning back to the viewscreen,

"Sir, the situation is critical. We cannot-" the ship lurches violently, sending people sprawling. Captain Hendy barely manages to remain in her seat.

"Direct hit amidships, Captain," the chief engineer calls, fingers flying across his display. "Hull breach. Seven compartmental failures, four in the crew quarters. Being contained, but severe structural damage. Fifty-nine casualties. Eight of the point-defence turrets wiped out."

"Captain!" the Helican officer calls. "We're dispatching co-ordinates to the convoy. Protect them at all costs. Nanny ships will be sent to pick up survivors of the destroyed ships. God help you! Helican Control out."

The viewscreen deactivates and Captain Hendy glares round at her frantic crew, tapping on her chair mike to patch her message through to the entire ship.

"Helican have sent jump co-ordinates - the convoy will be moving off. The Alliance needs those men and women - we will see them through! Now let's bring the fight to the f***ing Coalition! We're the Thunderchild - we bring the rain!"

"Bring the rain!" comes the shout from the crew.

"Prepare nuclear missiles for firing!" Captain Hendy orders.

"Ma'am, are you sure?" her gunnery chief queries, eyebrows raising.

"Yes," she snaps, "I am." She stands and hurries down the dais to his console, pulling a key on a slim chain from inside her shirt. This she inserts into a panel and turns. A green light comes on, followed by another as the gunnery chief does the same.

"Now," Captain Hendy says, stowing the key back in her shirt, "bring the rain indeed."

She runs back to her chair, bringing up a holoscreen as soon as she sits down. It displays her ship in a small corner, and one of the Coalition battlecruisers appears to fill the rest of the space almost immediately.

"It's the further one, ma'am, the Potemkin" the gunnery chief calls, "the Bólivar is too close."

"Fire as soon as ready," Captain Hendy orders.

Just then the ship shudders yet again and the sound of screaming metal screeches across the comm system. A klaxon begins to wail, its insistent note rising and falling in an eerie cadence.

"Where were we hit?"

"Port side, direct hit on the port auxiliary engine. Damage levels critical in three sectors adjoining. Major structural damage; recommend releasing port projection," the chief engineer responds, looking up at her.

She hesitates for a second, then makes up her mind. "Release!"

The engineer nods and taps a rapid command into his holodisplay. It is done; the port projection, along with the auxiliary engine, go floating away, trailing debris behind it. As it turns lazily through space, the first ships from the convoy jump out. One, then another, and another spark off into the inky blackness of space.

"Lock achieved," the gunnery chief calls, not looking up, "firing now!"

The Thunderchild's missile launchers spit forth a salvo, the rockets streaking across the distance between the ships in the blink of an eye. Point-defence turrets on the Potemkin annihilate many, but three get through.

A blinding flash shrouds the Potemkin from view; when it fades, afterimages burned onto the retinas of those unfortunate enough to look, the Potemkin is almost torn apart. Gaping wounds stretch the length of the craft. Though not destroyed, it is no condition to keep fighting. From the looks of it, the ship may need to be abandoned.

"Captain!" an officer yells, cutting across the cheering in the bridge. "I'm picking up targeting signals from the Bólivar - she's aiming missiles at the transports!"

"Pound her!" Captain Hendy snaps.

The gunnery chief is hunched over his display. "Reloading still in progress - in a couple of minutes!"

"Not soon enough - she's preparing to fire now!"

At that moment, a round from the Bólivar's guns slams into the bridge of the Thunderchild. The ship shudders violently, the bridge invisible in a cloud of shattered steel.

Crew members across the ship stare at each other in horror as the news echoes through the ship from the coilgun mount forward. Another lurch, even more violent, runs the length of the ship and many are hurled to the floor. This time it is the coilgun mount itself that has been hit, and the entire forward section of the ship is shattered as the power core explodes. The Thunderchild now is little more than a wreck, beheaded and disarmed.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the crew's shock.

"This is Captain Hendy," she rasps. "Am going to ram Bólivar. Abandon ship. That is an order. Abandon ship!"

Swiftly and with practised efficiency, the surviving crew members run to the escape pods. One by one the pods launch, as the Thunderchild turns towards the Bólivar, the Coalition ship seemingly ignoring her. Coilgun rounds smash into two more transports, shredding them entirely. Now only ten remain, five having been destroyed and five more having jumped out.

The Thunderchild plows onwards towards the Bólivar, which realises the threat too late. It fires a salvo straight into the prow and attempts to pull up and away, but to no avail. On the Thunderchild comes, streaming debris behind it, and strikes the Bólivar in the stern, directly forward of the engines. When the resulting blast fades, the only things left of the two ships are shocked, burnt-out hulks.

Less than a minute later, the last of the transport ships jumps out.

It takes half an hour for Nanny ships to arrive and pick up the escape pods, but it is done. Of the Bólivar's crew, few survive. One of those who does is the Captain, Anna Illyana. Her counterpart, Captain Elizabeth Hendy, does not. Both are mothers; both have children who will be embroiled in the war. Captain Illyana has a daughter who is an officer, a Flight Lieutenant, in the Raven squadron of fighters. Her name is Katrina Illyana.

Captain Hendy has a son. A young man, only just nineteen. He is still in university, but it will not be for long. The news of his mother's death in action will spur him to respond to the Alliance broadcast after the Deimos betrayal, when the Alliance High Command request all civilians with flight experience to report to their nearest recruitment centre for skills evaluation. He has flown before; his hobby as a teen was stunt flying, in which he received several awards. Because of that, he is marked as fighter material, first class. Following a two-day crash course on a simulator, he is given the rank of Second Lieutenant and posted to one of the several volunteer squadrons which have been formed. His is the newest, assigned to an old recomissioned Class Four carrier, the Reliant. Commanded by a Spanish woman reassigned from the Cougars squadron, it has a small backbone of relatively experienced pilots and copilots, such as Brad 'Viper' Callan, Alpha Wing Commander, and Mike 'Moose' Horrigan. It is called the Forty-Fifth Volunteers, in a tribute to the famous volunteer squadron of the Second World War, the Forty-Fifth, also known as the American Volunteer Group.

The young man's name is Leo Hendy. His chosen callsign: Venger, from the French for vengeance.

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